Butter Dreams

It's like Jacob Marley's chain,
thick and permanent,
this old pain,
dragging it behind me, exhausted,
carving deep gouges
in the impermanent Earth
Sorrow is contemptuous
It's made of yarn, like soft sweaters
draped over my life,
dulling the noise,
where I sit spinning in the center
like a forgotten record
on an old turntable
as if it could drill down
as deep as I need to go.
splitting me open
like a pomegranate in the fall
those sideways slices, so careful, precise
but I still get the juice on my skin
staining my hands like red paint
staining the wood
all for those sweet seeds
they might have secrets
I might find my truth